The rhythmic clatter of piano keys filled the music room, but to Hyacinth, it sounded less like music and more like relentless waves crashing over him. His fingers ached from the repeated motion, the pressure of the keys pressing back against him like a weight he could no longer carry.
Just one more time.If I can just get this right…
But no matter how many times he played, no matter how carefully he followed Yukimura's critiques, the music wouldn't come together. It slipped from his grasp like sand, like something just beyond his reach.
Hyacinth clenched his jaw, forcing his stiff fingers to move over the keys again. His exhaustion sat heavy on his shoulders, but he ignored it. If Yukimura could be perfect, so could he. He just had to keep going.
Until the walls betrayed him.
Yukimura's voice—low and tense—filtered through the slight crack in the door. Hyacinth hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but the sharp edge of Yukimura's words made him freeze.
"I have deadlines. I barely get any sleep."
A pause. Hyacinth couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, only Yukimura's responses, each one clipped and tense.
"I'm doing my best. I can't just drop everything. Music is still important to me."
Another silence. Then, the soft click of the call ending.
Yukimura exhaled, quieter this time, almost to himself.
"That's just how it is. I'm not a kid anymore."
For a moment, Hyacinth didn't move. He knew that tone. He had heard it before—not just from teachers or strict instructors, but from his own family. That resigned expectation, that belief that resilience meant never faltering, never slowing down. That asking for help was an admission of weakness.
The door opened.
Yukimura stepped inside, his shoulders stiff, eyes dark with something unreadable. The exhaustion clung to him, but the moment his gaze landed on Hyacinth, his expression shifted.
"What?" he asked, voice sharp, defensive.
Hyacinth shook his head, raising his hands instinctively, but Yukimura was already turning away, grabbing his drumsticks from the desk with too much force.
"Practice. Now."
The room was quiet, save for the metronome ticking in the background. Hyacinth sat at the piano, Yukimura standing behind him, arms crossed. The air between them was heavier than usual.
"Again. From the top."
Hyacinth pressed his fingers to the keys, trying not to think about how much his hands trembled. The notes came out uneven, sluggish. He barely made it through the first few measures before his fingers slipped, hitting a discordant note.
He winced.
Yukimura exhaled sharply. "Are you even trying?"
Hyacinth clenched his fists. I'm trying. I'm trying so hard. But Yukimura didn't see the nights he spent practicing, the hours of exhaustion piling up like an avalanche. He didn't see the way his own words—so harsh, so indifferent—cut deeper than they should have.
He pressed the keys again. The same mistake.
Yukimura scoffed. "Pathetic. If you can't even—"
The world tilted.
Hyacinth felt his body sway forward, the piano keys rushing up to meet him. His vision blurred, his limbs suddenly too heavy to move.
No—just a little longer. I can—
A sharp ringing filled Hyacinth's ears. The notes on the sheet music blurred together. The piano keys stretched and distorted.
Then—nothing.
A sharp sound—something clattering to the floor. A gasp.
Then, his name, urgent and unguarded.
"Hyacinth!"
Everything went black
Hyacinth woke to the scent of something faintly minty and the distant murmur of voices. The first thing he saw was the ceiling of the music room, the dim glow of evening light casting shadows against the walls.
The second thing he saw was Yukimura, hovering over him, brow furrowed.
"You passed out," Yukimura said flatly.
Hyacinth blinked, his mind still sluggish. Yukimura's expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes was off. Not irritation. Not anger. Something closer to… guilt?
A new voice broke through the silence.
"What the hell, Yukimura? He's not a machine!"
Gabby. His voice was sharper than usual, his usual playfulness absent.
Yukimura didn't respond immediately. Instead, he looked at Hyacinth again, expression unreadable. Then, with a short exhale, he ran a hand through his hair, his own exhaustion seeping through the cracks.
"You wouldn't get it," he muttered under his breath. "None of you would."
Gabby scoffed. "Try me."
For a moment, Yukimura looked like he was actually considering it. His fingers twitched at his side. But instead, he turned away, shoulders rigid.
"Take care of him," was all he said before leaving the room.
That night, Hyacinth found himself back in the music room, alone once more. His body ached, his hands sore, but he still couldn't bring himself to leave.
He thought of Yukimura's voice on the phone, the weight in it. He thought of his own exhaustion, how their struggles weren't so different after all. How many times had he heard those same words? Just deal with it. Be strong. Keep going.
His eyes drifted to the piano.
If I just practiced harder…
A soft sound broke his thoughts. The door creaked open slightly, but no one stepped inside. Instead, something was placed on the desk—a small, familiar object.
A roll-on Katinko oil.
Hyacinth stared at it.
No note. No explanation. But beside it was something else—a Choco Mucho chocolate bar.
His fingers curled around the Katinko. It was warm from someone's pocket.
The tightness in his chest grew.
Yukimura's way of apologizing wasn't through words.
It was through small, silent gestures.